


And a Happy Damn New Year

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: (I am not sorry), Background Hawkeye/Gracia, Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003), Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: The Elrics returned from another world three weeks before Christmas. That should be more than enough of a gift for the likes of Roy Mustang, shouldn't it?
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 19
Kudos: 416
Collections: Roy/Ed Week 2020





	And a Happy Damn New Year

**Author's Note:**

> Another post-CoS piece! What am I doing! No one knows!
> 
> Circling back to Day 1 for [Roy/Ed Week](https://royedpalooza.tumblr.com) (this is "You think you're so smart"), because apparently I am just gonna do all of them. w i l d
> 
> I accidentally made myself ship Hawkeye/Gracia _really_ hard while working on another fic, and now we all have to deal with the consequences. I'd apologize if I was sorry, but unfortunately I am not. :(
> 
> I do want to apologize for my Bad Hot Takes on Christmas (I have just shamelessly shoved our universe's Christmas nonsense at this because Reasons). Sometimes I love Christmas, but sometimes I am Scroogey AF, and I channeled that later on in this one, so heads up if you don't want rain on your Christmas parade. X'D Content warning for lots of discussion of alcoholic drinks, too, in case that's tough for anybody. ♥
> 
> I did not expect to write anything overtly Christmassy in the first place, but, uh… yeah. Merr Chrsm if you celebrate it, and I hope you have an absolutely lovely December 25 if you don't! ♥

Embarrassing. It shouldn’t matter how long; it shouldn’t matter how much; at thirty-six for one more day, Roy’s heart shouldn’t squeeze until it almost chokes him at the merest glimpse of Ed. If he can’t be too mature for it by now, he should at least be too tired. He should have grown out of it. He should have given up.

He supposes that he oughtn’t be surprised that when the Flame Alchemist carries torches, they simply don’t ever burn out.

“You look _nice_ , Brother,” Al is saying, perhaps a touch louder than strictly necessary, as he and Ed reach Gracia’s doorstep. “It’s always been your color. It’s about time that you started imposing yourself into people’s peripheral vision again.” He pauses, meaningfully, and pats Ed on the left shoulder. “You know. _People_.”

“You think you’re so damn smart, Al,” Ed mutters.

“That’s because I am,” Al says contentedly. He knocks on the door.

The noise apparently doesn’t drown out the sound of Roy’s footsteps on the snow-speckled walkway, however, because Ed turns sharply to look.

Under a very thick, fur-lined black leather jacket, he’s wearing a blood-red button-down shirt. Al also seems to have forced him into a tie—black with tiny silver snowflakes. More familiar and significantly more torturous: tight black slacks, tall black boots, and a giant pewter belt buckle with a flaming skull.

Roy is not very damn smart. Roy, in fact, cannot believe that he was ever fool enough to believe that he could attend Gracia’s first Christmas Eve party since the return of the Elric Brothers and somehow get out alive.

“Good evening,” he says. He plants his right foot and tips his weight subtly to tilt his hips and then his shoulders. If nothing else, he can _try_ to look dashing. The feeble snow dotting his hair and his eyelashes might make it more difficult to pinpoint the gray streaks; he’s always cut a fine figure in a long coat. The eyepatch is a lost cause, as is the rest of him, but he _does_ have the instincts. He’ll always have that. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Amazing,” Ed says, and Roy has missed the accusatory way his eyes narrow; the way he sets his mouth; the way he lifts his chin— “How long after we left did you hit rock bottom and start fresh as a stand-up comedian?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Roy says. “It was a tough day. Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn’t speak to me anymore.”

“ _Roy_ ,” Gracia says from the illuminated doorway.

“Brother started it,” Alphonse says, looking far too delighted at the prospect altogether. “It’s his own fault.”

“Oh, dear,” Gracia says.

Then she opens her arms, and an Elric rockets into each of them, and together they lift her up off of the floor.

“Come in, come in,” Gracia says, beckoning to Roy before she’s even been released. “It’s so cold out there.”

It isn’t. He’s adjusted, in the interim, but he hasn’t forgotten yet.

“Thank you,” he says. She always remembers to turn her head to the right for him to kiss her cheek so that her earrings won’t catch on the fabric of the patch.

“Roy,” she says, “you _do_ know that you’re allowed to turn up empty-handed by now without being ejected back out into the snow.”

“Didn’t want to risk it,” he says as she draws the door shut behind them both. Moderately explosive noises emanate from the living room—friends from outside of Roy’s team rediscovering the Elrics for the first time. His lucky little crew got the up-close and personal experience of prying them out of a crater and attempting to stop them from bleeding to death, which has haunted half of Roy’s nights since.

It’s only been three weeks. The two of them must be busy—they’ve been rebuilding, reestablishing, sneaking out of the hospital to run to Resembool and then come back with pulled stitches and excuses that reminded Roy of the old reports. They’ve been making visits; writing letters; reopening bank accounts; desperately trying to catch up.

They haven’t been _avoiding_ him. They’ve just been… occupied.

“One’s for the party,” Roy says, raising the wine bottle and trailing her into the kitchen; “and one’s for you.”

He didn’t bother wrapping her gift, other than tying a ribbon around it, since he knew that she might well want to start using it tonight. He doesn’t imagine that most of Gracia’s acquaintances know that buying her high-quality knives is appreciated in the same way as buying Riza firearms.

“You _scoundrel_ ,” she says, slightly breathlessly, as she unrolls them on the countertop. “All I have for you is pie.”

“I’d spend another winter in the cabin for your pie,” Roy says.

She gives him a look.

He smiles winningly.

“Oh, shoot,” she says. “I forgot to ask the boys—” They aren’t; they hardly ever were; and all the same, it’s a relief that someone sees them that way. It’s a blessing that she wants to let them still be young. “—what they’d like to drink.”

“I’ll get it,” Roy says. “Please tell me you’re not going to spend the entirety of your own party—”

“ _No_ , Roy,” she says, pushing gently at his arm. “Now go out there and have fun.”

“At a party?” Roy says. “That hardly seems fair.”

Gracia points. “Now.”

Roy makes a point of slinking out of the kitchen and then stands up straight as soon as he’s reached the living room. He takes his coat off and hangs it by the door, and then he saunters over to the end of the couch that has been commandeered by a pair of universe-hopping hellions and says, “On behalf of our magnificent hostess, can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

Ed says, “Gentlemen?”; and Al says, “That’s so nice of you, General Mustang!”; and Elysia pops up out of nowhere to say, “Uncle Roy!”

Elysia asks for apple cider, which Roy infers to mean that Gracia has cooked up a nice vat of the non-alcoholic stuff. Al asks for that, too; and Ed…

Ed eyes Roy for a second and then says, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Roy arches his eyebrow. He practiced that a lot in the early days; he’s got the angle just right now to convey a precise amount of sardonicism with only the one. “I’m having scotch.”

Ed settles his right elbow on the arm of the couch. “Then so am I.”

Interesting.

Just as interesting: as Roy looks up past Ed’s far-too-fascinating sprawl to assess how hard Al is judging him, he notices Riza over by the fireplace—with one foot propped up on a kitchen chair, ankle bound in bandages.

“I’ll be right back,” he says.

He has to do one of those long rounds of repetitions of _hello_ s and _Merry Christmas_ es to greet his team and Alex and some of Gracia’s non-military friends, but Riza raises an expectant eyebrow at him immediately.

“Occupational hazard,” she says. “I’ll understand if you have to ridicule me for a while.”

“I would never sink to ridicule,” Roy says, setting his hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. She’s wearing a pair of extremely sparkly Christmas-tree-shaped earrings that Roy remembers being a present from Elysia last year. They’re shedding glitter on her sweater. “I might gloat a bit if it’s a really good story. Tactfully, though.”

“It’s not,” Riza says, patting his hand. “I took Elysia ice-skating this afternoon and twisted my ankle. Anti-climactic _and_ inconvenient.”

Roy extracts his hand from under hers and pats her head as vengeance. She swats him. Her aim is, as always, impeccable.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “If I have to come to work next week on crutches, I will.”

“ _C’mon_ , Lieutenant,” Havoc says, leaning forward like it will enhance his attempts to wheedle the unwheedle-able. “Don’t stress yourself out. Gotta make sure you heal up. Why don’t you take some time off?”

Riza looks at him. Then she looks up at Roy.

“Spiked hot cocoa it is,” Roy says.

As he heads to the kitchen, Breda says, “We should put that on tap in the break room this time of year,” and then Roy _just_ hears Riza say, “Hmm.”

Roy selects a nice metal tray from one of the cabinets by the oven. Nearing the oven is something of an exercise in self-torment, given how incredible the pie inside of it smells just now.

“You’re still avoiding your own party, my dearest,” he says to Gracia, who has moved on to handmade whipped cream. “You and I both know that I recognize procrastination when I see it.”

Gracia sighs without even losing the rhythm of the whisking. She’s nearly got peaks now, so this excuse won’t last much longer. “It’s… the holidays…”

“I know,” Roy says.

“And Riza is…” The slightest touch of pink jumps to her cheeks, unrelated to the intensity of the task.

“Spectacular,” Roy says. “Incredible. Shockingly funny once you get acclimated to the deadpan. Great with children because she’s used to dealing with me. Excellent at fixing things around the house. Thoughtful. Smart. Loyal. Gorgeo—”

“Roy,” Gracia says. The cream stands up in curved formations, looking just a little too much like snow. “I’m already dating her. You don’t have to write her a newspaper ad.”

“Long walks on the beach,” Roy says. “Just not right now, on account of a skating accident.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and starts selecting glasses from the cabinet. “Is it any easier this year than it was last year?”

“Yes,” Gracia says. “I think we’re almost at the point of needles instead of knives.” She puts the bowl down and leans back against the counter, wiping her hands very slowly with her apron. “Some days, I can handle the needles. Some days… I’m not so sure I can.”

Roy knows better than just about anyone that sometimes hiding isn’t a matter of shame or fear as much as it’s a matter of sheer exhaustion. Sometimes it’s a method of survival. The world won’t stop; it never does; but sometimes the only way for you to come back swinging is if you step away and stare out into silence for a while first. Sometimes you need time to analyze the ways in which you’re broken so that you can slowly sort out how to build on top.

He crosses to Gracia and wraps her into both his arms, pointedly ignoring the way she says “The _apron_ , Roy—it’s going to stain your shirt.”

“May I make you,” he says, “a spiked hot cocoa?”

“Yes,” Gracia says. “But you can keep the cocoa.”

  


* * *

  


Roy serves Riza her drink first, because she doesn’t need to be able to stand to be able to hurt him; and also because Elysia is now occupying her lap, so that’s a double delivery. Al chirps a “Thank you!”; Ed just raises the glass at him he’s clasped it in the rather more fragile fingers of his left hand.

The only seat left open is the armchair positioned directly next to the end of the couch. Roy suspects that this is not a coincidence. Riza’s omniscience, which was terrifying in its own right, has now merged with Gracia’s fervent desire for everyone around her to be as happy as possible, facilitating an ever more formidable force of nature. Clearly both of them want him to sit by Ed. Message received.

The messages from Ed himself are somewhat less self-evident. He’s leaning back into the couch, tilting his glass of scotch very slowly back and forth until the ice cubes clink against the sides. Roy thinks, dizzy with the way the past keeps plastering itself across his heart tonight, that the liquor must envy the color of his eyes.

And the way they burn.

“Bigshot general now, huh?” Ed says.

“Hardly,” Roy says. “I didn’t expect you to like scotch.”

Ed tilts the glass again. “I like anything I can get.”

This is not quite the way that Roy imagined that the touching reunion heart-to-heart would go.

Ed licks his lips, which chases every last hope of a word out of Roy’s head and every last trace of breath out of his lungs, and then sips the scotch. He works it around his tongue for a few seconds; his eyebrows rise; his eyes narrow; his mouth twitches towards a smile.

He swallows, and then he looks down at the glass in his hand.

“Beats the crap out of you and then apologizes,” he says. “Perfect.”

That sounds too significant, but Roy doesn’t get a chance to comment before Ed arches an eyebrow again.

“So,” Ed says. “How are you?”

“Muddling through,” Roy says.

Are Ed’s eyes on him unusually sharp, or has he just forgotten precisely how incisive they can be? “Sounds like you’ve been muddling pretty well. Is this a world record for reconstructing your career, or just a national one?”

“That’s more to do with luck than with the quality of the muddling,” Roy says. “And perhaps the teeniest, tiniest bit of blackmail.”

“How festive,” Ed says.

“Quite,” Roy says. He pauses, raising the glass so that he’ll be able to drink to hide his expression. “How about you?”

“Eh,” Ed says, eyes flicking away from him—towards the others; towards Al conspiring with Fuery over something in a notebook. “Same old, same old. Y’know.”

The rest of Roy’s team is engrossed in some story that Elysia is telling with gestures so grandiose that Hughes wouldn’t stop at bursting; he would _explode_ with pride. Gracia has settled on an ottoman next to Riza’s chair, and has taken Riza’s hair down in order to stroke her fingers idly through it while working on her drink.

Roy wishes, sincerely, that he was healthy and whole enough by now to be unreservedly happy for them. He wishes that a part of him did not recoil in seething jealousy and layer on the familiar self-loathing. He wishes that he didn’t know that he would be happier if he was more like them—if he was willing to give, and to give up. If he was brave enough to be kind. If he had the guts to hold his heart open even when he knows that the world will likely let him down.

He should be stronger by now. He should be delighted. He should be capable of hope, of resolution, of resilience. He should have rediscovered the prospect of belief.

Ed’s back. Ed’s _alive_. What more could he possibly ask from a universe that owes him so much less than nothing?

“Did they have a Christmas?” Roy asks. “In the place you were before.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. The smile doesn’t even nudge the corners of his eyes. “Similar concept. A lot of the same traditional stuff. But it still didn’t… For us, anyway, it wasn’t ever like… this.”

The lights and the noise have already started to summon an ominous shuddering in Roy’s skull, centered just behind where his eye would be. Joy to the world indeed. It makes him forget to think before he speaks, which is always— _always_ —a mistake. “What do you miss the most?”

Ed’s eyes fix on him again. Cat’s eyes; wolf’s eyes. Too-smart and dangerous.

“Absolutely fuckin’ nothing,” Ed says.

Roy opens his mouth to offer some other brilliance—most likely _That good?_ or some variation thereupon—but a knock at the door forces him to turn to look on instinct, and then he notices Gracia’s expression all the way across the room and calls, “Sit down; I’ll get it.”

When he swings the door open, Maria’s and Denny’s beaming smiles greet him, which would be more amenable if their unnecessarily loud and remarkably synchronized “ _Merry Christmas, sir!_ ” didn’t immediately follow.

He steps back to let them in, only to have a candy cane—with a sprig of mistletoe tied around it with a thin red ribbon, no less—popped into his shirt pocket for his pains. Denny pats it briskly and winks at him.

“Make good use of it, sir,” Denny says.

Roy starts to say “I beg your pardon” but only makes it through two syllables before they’ve jaunted right on past him and started shoving candy canes at everybody else. Ed gets one bedecked with a tiny bit of holly, which must be prickly but at least will match his shirt.

Roy closes the door, returns to his seat, and picks up his scotch again.

“What were we talking about?” he asks. The flickers of the firelight, the ornamental candles, and the regular room lighting are starting to feel like individual knives.

“Me,” Ed says, rolling his shoulders before he resettles on the couch. “So that’s enough of that. How’ve you been?”

“Excruciatingly boring,” Roy says, “as always. What’s the strangest thing you ate over there?”

Ed stares at him for long enough that he thinks he might have crossed a line. It’s possible that the reason that the Elrics have been so tight-lipped is that the four years they spent in the other place were simply so traumatic that they can’t bear to think about them. It’s possible that the wounds are too deep for stitches; too deep to think of healing; too deep to do anything but plaster over and pretend to ignore. It’s possible that—

Ed will start smirking at him. It’s possible that less has changed than he thought.

“Seagull,” Ed says. “Gamey and fishy at the same time. Fucking _awful_.” His eyes glint. “Please tell me you ate wolverine or some shit while you were up north.”

“Alas,” Roy says. “Excruciatingly boring is as excruciatingly boring does, and also as excruciatingly boring eats.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Ed says, but the challenge in his grin makes Roy’s heart scamper; makes his blood beat; makes the lights hurt less.

“I did start to get scurvy, though,” Roy says.

Ed’s eyes widen. “You—no. No way. You’re screwing with me.”

“Ask Lieutenant Hawkeye,” Roy says. “She still hasn’t forgiven me. I told her over the phone, and she hung up on me and wouldn’t pick up when I kept calling back—which costs a fortune, by the way. A few days later, an enormous crate of lemons arrived in North City for me to pick up. No note whatsoever, which is how I knew that she was too mad to tell me how mad she was.” He sits back and sips his scotch. “I had a lot of vodka martinis garnished artfully with lemon peels.”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Ed says. “You did not.”

“All right,” Roy says. “You caught me. I didn’t have any vermouth. So I really just had a lot of vodka garnished artfully with lemon peels. I have completely lost any desire ever to drink lemonade again, which isn’t exactly adequate punishment for that level of stupidity, but I suppose it’ll have to do.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” Ed says, so emphatically that it almost sounds affectionate. “You’re going to need that smile for politics.”

Roy’s heart clenches hard. “I’ll drink to that.”

“But not lemonade,” Ed says.

“Never again,” Roy says.

“Orange juice?” Ed asks.

“Thin ice,” Roy says.

Elysia bounds up before he can vilify any other types of citrus. She has a familiar basket full of ribbon bows clutched in both hands.

“Here you go!” she says, thrusting a red one at Ed. “I saved it for you! Al helped me pick.”

“Uh,” Ed says, setting his scotch down on the coffee table to take it in both hands, “thanks. What…”

Elysia has turned too swiftly to notice his confusion. “What color do you want, Uncle Roy?”

“Your choice, darling,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair and gazes regally into the middle distance. “Just make sure it’s something that flatters my complexion.”

Elysia giggles. She’s her father’s daughter—whip-smart but so quick to laugh, and so ready to pry every last possible piece of joy out of the bloodstained jaws of the miserable world.

A few years ago, she stumbled on a photo of Hughes in his worst Christmas-tree-patterned pajamas, sticking gift bows on people’s heads while they unwrapped their presents. She has since turned it into a sacred annual tradition. Roy doesn’t have the slightest idea where Gracia gets the bows—they’re all huge and glittery, and the party attendees almost always take them home. He has a small rainbow of them in a drawer now.

“You’re so vain, Uncle Roy,” Elysia says, just as Ed raises his scotch glass again.

Roy’s ego is soothed immensely by the fact that Ed gets scotch up his nose.

Elysia squeaks out, “Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?” as Ed chokes his way through the worst of it. Al leans over to pound him on the back. Roy just enjoys it.

“Adulthood is very dull, my dear,” Roy says when Elysia looks at him, still slightly alarmed even though Ed is wheezing his way closer to normal breaths again. “Sometimes vanity is all we have left.”

Elysia wrinkles her nose and holds a beautiful royal purple bow out to him. “Changed my mind, Uncle Roy. You’re vain and _weird_.”

Unsurprisingly, that sets Ed off again, although this time he was wise enough not to be drinking, so Al just sort of pats his back as he gradually gains control of himself. He wipes his eyes with the cuff of his left sleeve and gives a startled Elysia a giant grin.

“Kid,” Ed says. “You gotta warn me when you’re gonna roast him like that. You’re _killing_ me. It’s like you picked up exactly where I left off.”

Roy dutifully puts his bow on top of his head. The gleam of the lights off of the nest of ribbons in the basket is not kind on his eye. “You used to do it much more intentionally.”

“She’ll get there,” Ed says adoringly. “I’m so proud.”

“You gotta wear it,” Elysia says of the bow that Ed has managed not to abandon despite his travails. “Lemme help.” He offers her the bow back and leans forward; she reaches up and places it right in the center of his head, like a little crown. “There.”

Al’s wearing a gold one. Riza’s is blue. Gracia’s is emerald green.

“What about you, Princess?” Roy asks.

Elysia looks around, assessing the one’s she’s already distributed, and then looks down into her basket again. “I think…”

She reaches for an extraordinarily shiny silver one, with a ribbon wide enough to function like a funhouse mirror. The brush of her fingertips against it tilts it into _precisely_ the right configuration to reflect the glare from the chandelier directly into Roy’s eye, which spears into his skull like vengeful lightning.

He claps his free hand over his eye at the first lancing imposition of the pain; distantly he feels the bow tumbling down his back. He clenches his jaw to bite back all the things that he might say, in other company. His brain is convinced that it can still _feel_ the light; that it’s wormed its way through the cracks between his fingers and around the edges of his hand to continue jabbing at him.

“Uncle Roy?” Elysia says, and it’s the terror in her voice that makes him grimace.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m—fine. Just—do you remember that time we were at the park, and the light off the water gave me a headache? I’ll just… I’ll step outside a second, where it’s not quite as bright as it is in here, and then I’ll be perfectly all right.”

He feels for the table, sets his glass down on it, and then braces his arm against the chair to stand. Before he’s upright, a strong hand has clasped onto his elbow.

“Here,” Ed says. “I gotcha. We’ll be back in just a minute, kiddo.” The hand drags both of them in what must be the direction of the door; fabric rustles near what must be the coatrack, and then hinges creak. The gust of cold air that washes over Roy coaxes his hand downward and his eye open.

The fitful snow from when they were arriving hasn’t stuck, but the darkness and the quiet start to soothe Roy’s head before Ed’s even shut the door.

Which makes him realize that Ed has shut the door behind them—behind the both of them.

He’s not sure that he can afford to read anything into that just yet.

Gingerly, mindful of his knees and his back and his just-about-everything, he sits down on the front step. The way the roof extends above it has kept it dry, at least; and no one seems to have tracked too much slush up to it yet. That’s a lucky break. He should fix his attention harder on those. He should be grateful. He should be glad.

He should be a lot of things.

He breathes a soft sigh of relief and lowers his hand the rest of the way. The moonlight isn’t bright enough to aggravate him, even twinkling off of the tenacious specks of white scattered across the lawn.

Ed drops Roy’s coat onto his shoulders. “I have an idea,” he says, sitting down directly next to Roy. He sets his glass of scotch down on the step, shoulders his own jacket back on, takes the candy cane out of his shirt pocket, flings the holly into the hedge, and unwraps the candy. He sticks the long end of it into his mouth. “How do you think this is gonna go with the scotch?”

“Poorly,” Roy says.

“Quitter talk,” Ed says.

“Is it?” Roy says. “You haven’t started yet. I’d say it’s more like rational caution talk.”

Ed tries not to grin. “I’d say shut up.”

Before Roy can present any further rational cautions, Ed withdraws the candy cane, takes another swig of scotch, and then pops the end of the candy cane back into his mouth.

Roy’s morbid curiosity overcomes his better judgment. “How… is it?”

“Terrible,” Ed says calmly. “But now I’m committed.”

That sure sounds like life in a nutshell.

“How’s your head?” Ed asks.

“Better,” Roy says. The stabbing has mostly subsided to an angry little throb.

Ed nods a little. His eyes track out over the frosted grass—moving gradually, like he’s analyzing every inch of it.

“Are you cold?” he asks. “I could get—”

“Not really,” Roy says. “Thank you.”

Ed’s mouth curves up, but Roy’s not sure that he would call that particular facial contortion a _smile_ at this point.

“Guess you’re used to it,” Ed says. “After the north.”

Roy watches the light from within glint on Ed’s hair. That ought to hurt, probably, but it doesn’t. “Something like that.”

Ed looks at him for a long, long moment and then looks away.

“Al said…” He draws a breath and releases it as silver steam. “Al said you were… waiting. Holding out.”

If Al told him, then he already knows.

If Al told him, then he doesn’t have to say _For me_.

It’s a brave thing to have to put a voice to, and a terrible thing to have to carry.

All Roy can offer is the truth.

“Yes,” he says.

Ed swallows. He pulls at the end of his right sleeve with the fingertips of his left hand for a few seconds before he buries his fist in his pocket.

“I’m not the same,” he says. He forces the words out one at a time. “I’m not—the person that I was back then. I’m not the one that you were waiting for. Not anymore.”

“Ed,” Roy says, barely trusting his voice—barely trusting anything, but his damn fool heart knows that he doesn’t have a choice. “If you’d been here the entire time, and you’d had the most boringly ordinary four years ever recorded in the history of humankind—I would still expect you to have changed. That’s what happens. That’s what time does. That’s what people _are_.”

Ed smiles bitterly. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“Hell, Ed,” Roy says. Getting to speak his name so many times in one conversation is a thrill all on its own, but Ed would probably fling himself directly back through a portal without a second thought if Roy said so. “ _I’ve_ changed. I’m not the same one who was waiting.”

“I know,” Ed says, jaw working, mouth set in a hard line for several seconds before— “But you did it the way you’re s’posed to. You went _up_. You sorted some shit out and set some shit right and confronted your problems and tried to solve them. You changed for the better.” He breathes in, breathes out, stares up at the clouded sky. “I… didn’t.”

Roy could say a lot of things.

He could say _You are not, and never have been, what you think of yourself_.

He could say _If you’ve sunk downward in the world’s esteem, you might almost be able to see me below you by now_.

He could say _You survived, Ed. Anyone who asks more of you than that has no concept of the winter_.

He could say _I will always, always want you. I don’t care who you are now. I don’t care what you’ve done. You’re you, Ed. You’re still you. You’re still trying. You’re still bleeding through the bandages and desperately striving to be more than what you were the day before_.

But he doesn’t think that Ed will be able to hear those things—possibly not ever; certainly not yet. He thinks the wound’s too raw, and the snow’s too deep.

So he says, “May I tell you a secret?”

He keeps his eye on a gap between the clouds even though he can feel Ed watching him.

“Okay,” Ed says, slowly. “Shoot.”

Roy takes the candy cane out of his breast pocket and holds it in both hands. The mistletoe looks a bit wilty.

“I hate Christmas,” he says. “I hate pretending to be happy. I hate gifts—I hate remembering to buy them early enough; I hate tearing my hair out trying to come up with something useful and thoughtful that I haven’t bought before, for a dozen separate people who might secretly resent me if I fail. I hate receiving gifts even more. There is _no_ graceful way on this awful planet to accept them, and attempting to anticipate the monetary value of someone’s affection for you is a nightmare. I _deeply_ hate opening them in front of the person who gave them to me; it feels like a performance and a pop quiz that you cannot pass no matter how hard you try. I hate wrapping paper. I hate ornaments. I hate the pressure to feel so warm and cozy and act so cheery and bright when mostly all I want to do is go home and drink in front of the fire and refuse to get out of bed the next morning.” He rolls the candy cane in his fingertips. “And I hate peppermint.”

Ed is silent for a second.

And then he starts to laugh, and if it sounds a bit like sleigh bells, no one ever has to know.

“Fuck _me_ ,” he says. “You know what? Me, too. To all of it. Al loves this shit—and I love that he loves it; I mean that. He deserves to get all the shitty Christmas cheer he wants, and I’ll make it for him with my own two hands if he can’t find enough of it, but… _God_ , what a pain in the ass. I like seein’ people. I like having an excuse to spend time with ’em and whatever shit. But if I never have to walk past another red and white sale sign and think about what a failure of a human being I am, it’ll be too goddamn soon.”

“A-fucking-men,” Roy says.

Ed laughs again—louder, harder, fuller, with his eyes shut and his shoulders trembling. Hard enough that the bow finally falls off of his head and lands directly in the remnants of his drink.

Hard enough that Roy believes it.

Hard enough that Roy believes a lot of things.

Ed’s still grinning, and his eyes gleam, as he gets a hold of himself. He reaches out with his left hand and flicks the drooping leaves of the mistletoe wrapped around Roy’s candy cane.

“This shit’s all right, though,” he says, casually. Their hands brush; his eyes flick up to Roy’s and then back down. “As long as people don’t abuse it, anyway.”

“I think I’ve only ever seen it abused,” Roy says.

“Really?” Ed says. He swirls the bow and the half-melted ice around in his glass and then sets it down on the step beside him. “It… y’know. Comes in handy sometimes. When you need an excuse to kiss somebody that you kinda wanted to be kissing anyway.”

Roy’s heart seems to be beating loud enough to drown out several drummer boys. “That is a… that’s an interesting proposition. If there’s someone that you wanted to be kissing.”

“Yeah,” Ed says. “If.”

Roy looks at him.

Ed looks back.

“Do not make me fucking beg,” Ed says. “I will steal your stupid eyepatch and run.”

Roy’s laughter is still misting between them when Ed grabs his shirt collar and drags him in, and oh—

_God_ —

He will complain about Christmas again, someday—likely someday soon.

But he’ll have nothing bad to say of this one anymore.

Ed tastes like whiskey and peppermint, which is even more abominable than Roy had feared; and his mouth moves too fast, and he bites Roy’s lip on purpose, and his hands are greedy and too-tight, and the automail is _frigid_. His tongue is a miracle; his eyelashes brush Roy’s cheek; he is hotter and rougher and smoother and crueler and _so_ much sweeter than the scotch. Roy wants to map out every single centimeter of his perfect mouth; Roy wants to live and die right here. Roy wants more; Roy wants everything. Roy wants _him_.

He has never believed that there is anything mystical about kisses, any more than he’s ever believed that there’s anything mystical about Christmas, but there is a particular warmth to Ed’s mouth sliding over his that tastes like the mirror image of his own damn desperation.

He believes that, for a second.

He believes that Ed wants him, too.

He believes that maybe—just maybe—Ed’s heart is brimming with the same breadth of _always have_ s and _always will_ s.

The tip of Ed’s tongue grazes the roof of his mouth; Ed’s metal fingers grip his collar so hard that they creak, and then—

Ed draws back, all at once, and stares at him, gasping.

“You missed Santa,” Ed says. “I fucking _hate_ Santa.”

Roy attempts to breathe. “I… did. Yes. I hate him, too.”

“Good,” Ed says. He pats at Roy’s collar as if that will do a damn thing for the wrinkles. “What the hell is the point? Kids’ brains aren’t developed enough to understand long-term consequences; you think threatening them in _June_ is gonna make them spontaneously adopt better behavior for the rest of the damn year? At _best_ , you’re gonna trick kids into acting nice in December, and it’s because they’re scared of sacrificing material gains, not ’cause they understand the difference between right and wrong.” He curls his hands together in his lap, rocking forward, the grin on his face a perfect mismatch for the rant. “How about you just raise your damn children instead of counting on some invisible, all-knowing asshole in a stupid hat to terrify them into complying a tiny fraction of the time? And don’t even get me started on the fucking logistics of all the gifts and shit.”

“I also hate elves,” Roy says. “And eggnog. Firs are on probation.” He clears his throat. “Would—do you and Alphonse have plans tomorrow?”

Ed is trying not to smile, and Roy is trying not to pass out on Gracia’s doorstep and faceplant in the snow. “I dunno. I don’t think so. Are we about to?”

“If you’d like,” Roy says. “I have some presents I need to deliver in the morning, but after that, we could… attempt to cook. Whatever else it is that people do on Christmas. I have more than enough scotch to help us pretend to enjoy it for Al’s benefit.”

Ed is grinning outright now, and Roy would tear down the sky for him, let alone this city. “Y’know, that doesn’t sound half-bad.”

“If there are any carolers,” Roy says, “I do have to insist that we turn off all the lights and act like we’re not home.”

“Sold,” Ed says. “Al’s gonna hate that, but he can suck it up.”

Roy looks at him for a moment, utterly resplendent in the pale night and the swell of yellow light spilling out of the windows behind them.

“Ed,” Roy says. “May I repurpose your tie for uses other than the one that you intended?”

Ed’s eyes _spark_. Too many impossibilities to number, tonight. “You mean like grabbing it for leverage?”

“Yes,” Roy says.

“Shit, Mustang,” Ed says, grinning broader still. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Roy is not planning to waste any more time with pleasantries when he could be kissing Ed again, so he wraps his fist around Ed’s tie and draws Ed in close enough to appreciate properly.

Ed laughs softly again when they eventually have to draw apart. Roy can’t feel his fingers. He doesn’t really care.

“Well,” Ed says. “Merry fucking Christmas, Roy.”

Roy breathes against his mouth—scotch and that godawful _peppermint_ —and smiles, and smiles, and smiles.

“Merry Christmas, Ed,” he says.


End file.
